Fallen Children of the Sun
by FragrantPowders
Summary: She wonders what became of the fairytales her mother told her at night and of her porcelain dolls which could not break into pieces. She recalls being a happy little girl in pink, frilly dresses. What became of that Pansy? OneShot.


**Title:** Fallen Children of the Sun

**Author: **FragrantPowders

**Beta:** Emma/monifieth, she is love and all remaining mistakes are all mine.

**Pairing:** Pansy/Luna

**Rating:** T/PG-13

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of this but the plot itself. Everything you recognise is property of a Mrs. Rowling, I'm only fooling around. Please don't sue me, since I have no money to give.

**Author's Notes: **Title taken from the song "Carry On" by Linda Perry.

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**Fallen Children of the Sun**

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The dagger is pressing against the hollow of her throat, the blade digging into the skin _(paper thin, alabaster white)_ and Pansy is sure it must draw blood by now _(pure blood, Pureblood)_. Draco's fingers tighten around the handle of the knife _(Pansy knows it is made of the most precious pearls, since it was once her fathers – before the war, before she became the wife of a Death Eater)_, she can feel it in the way his knuckles shift over her skin. She knows those hands well; when she was still an almost-virgin bride they made her shiver _(a silent gasp; this must be power)_. Later on she recognised weakness in them – the weakness that follows centuries of inbreeding, centuries of arrogance, centuries of corrupted power _(it is all about the power)_. 

"Swear your allegiance to the Dark Lord. Swear that you will serve him loyally. Swear it!"

Draco hisses in her ear; his breath ghosting lightly over her earlobe. His face is so close that Pansy can feel his lips move against her cheek as he tugs violently at her hair with his left hand, forcing her head back. With a tiny cutting movement the blade reminds her that her throat is now exposed _(bared to him, to her husband)_ and when she opens her eyes to the dark she can make out his eyes hidden in the shadows.

Grey. Always grey.

She remembers believing Draco would stay neutral – would help _her_ stay out of it. She was so naïve back in school _(nobody ever taught her about the world, she had to experience it in all its cruelty)_. She remembers hoping to become Draco's wife _(become a Malfoy, become powerful)_, she remembers exploring the Manor for the first time. She was so happy when she realised all this would be hers to have _(hers to own, her property)_.

Once life was beautiful; now it is just grey like Draco's eyes, grey like war. Colours belong in a child's fantasy and Pansy is not a child anymore.

The body lying on the carpet in the dinner room at the first floor is a child's body. Pansy blinks once, focusing at the ceiling above her head. Up there a dead child is lying abandoned like a used doll. It is like an abortion. That little boy never had the choice _(did Pansy?)_.

"Swear to be loyal to the Dark Lord, Pansy," Draco repeats, "swear it and you can live on like nothing has happened. You'll forget about the war; the Dark Lord will protect you. Just swear it."

Pansy wishes desperately she had not seen it. She wishes for it to be a bad dream; for her to wake up in her bed because Draco's hands are commanding her to. Anything but this.

"You killed a child," she says slowly, her voice too hoarse, too uncertain. "He was just a child, a little boy…" Draco's nails scrape over her scalp as his grip on her hair grows impossibly tight. She feels like a string close to snapping. She feels like a tool close to breaking. She feels more weak, more powerless than she has ever felt before _(he was supposed to make her powerful, to make her strong)_.

"It was nothing but a Squib. They are worthless. Dirt."

Pansy thinks about the baby in her womb. She thinks about the little signs she has got over the last week; the slight morning sickness, the warmth in her stomach and the tingle of magic not her own. She knows it is a boy; she is not sure how she knows, but she knows for a fact that it is a boy. A new Malfoy Heir. She had looked forward to tell Draco; she had hoped that it could make him love her again _(now he is as numb and cold as stone, she is not sure whether or not his heart is even beating anymore)_.

The boy was black like that Johnson girl from Gryffindor _(not because she had ever paid any notice of the way Angelina's skin shined like polished mahogany)_. Almost the exact same shade of dark, dark brown (_blackish; eyes sparkling black pearls in a round little face)_. Pansy's only reason to be up was that she had been looking for Draco _(she was so afraid of thunder)_; she had only gone to the first floor to find a House Elf to get her some water _(never minding the fact that she could just call for one and they would be there; bowing and scraping)_. She had only been there for a minute before she heard the screams. She recognised Draco's work immediately. She had seen him do it to House Elves often enough. His Cruciatus was strong _(powerful, always powerful)_.

He tells her again that it was only a Squib. _Only a Squib_. His voice is soft like the voice of a caring parent telling their child it will only hurt for a second _(it will stop quickly, darling, the pain will go away)_. She closes her eyes and tries to make her breathing more quiet, more elegant – not panicked like the breathing of a child having nightmares. That little boy could have been hers. What if their child was a Squib, would Draco kill it?

"Now, say you will be loyal to the Dark Lord. Say it or you know what I'll have to do," he mumbles softly against her ear. Pansy can hear his smirk. Draco might not be a killer _(his Killing Curse is weak and leads only to a very slow, terrible and blood red death)_, but he is good at manipulating; good at hurting.

The silence is beginning to suffocate her. Still she remains silent _(like a good girl should; like her mother taught her to when she was their little daughter with blonde curls and false smiles)_. The dagger presses in _(slowly, slowly)_ and she knows that Draco is going to kill her now. He will kill their son _(her son)_ like he killed the black Squib boy.

Pansy Parkinson was never a girl of courage _(she was never a Gryffindor, though cunning is somewhat related to bravery)_, but as a Slytherin she knows she has to aim for Draco's weak spot to survive this; to make sure her baby survives.

"I'm pregnant, Draco," she whispers, feeling her entire body tremble. Few things have ever been able to really scare her, but this is the most horrible experience ever _(his high-pitched cries still echo in her head)_.

She wonders idly what became of the fairytales her mother told her at night; of her porcelain dolls which could be thrown against the wall without breaking into pieces. She recalls being a happy little girl in pink, frilly dresses – what became of that Pansy? _(She has been mummified in growing pains)_.

"I'm pregnant," she repeats and there is a begging note to it. A heat she is not used to expressing.

It was never Draco's voice which betrayed his feelings. His actions always spoke for themselves. This time is no exception. His hands tremble so violently that the knife slips and Pansy knows she is bleeding for real now. She has been wounded in battle, though this is not one of the battles anyone will remember.

It is not the feeling as much as the sound that makes her realise the knife has moved from her throat; a sharp cutting sound and she realises her hair is falling to the ground _(like leaves in autumn; golden leaves shining in the light from the non existent sun)_. Her head snaps forward, suddenly not restrained anymore. With a gasping sob she crawls on all fours away from Draco blindly _(searching in the dark for something safe, something safe)_. As she looks over her shoulder at his blurred figure _(his hair looks deceivingly like a halo in the moonlight)_ she sees him brush the last strands of her hair off his fingers.

"Go," he tells her, his voice as blank as his face _(shadowy; it could be anybody, really)_.

Slowly she picks herself up from the floor, her knees trembling and her head spinning. They stare at each other for a long time. Baby-blue eyes _(hope is fragile but oh so hard to kill) _locked with grey _(robots always shine silvery)_. Then Draco turns on his heel and slams the door shut behind him as he abandons her to the night _(this is how it must feel to be dead)_. In the dimness of the room she collects only the loose strands of her hair before leaving.

Pansy runs all night and does not let herself rest before she finds a small lake among the ash trees in a little forest. She drinks from the cold, cold water, ignoring the girl who is looking back at her from deep down there. She does not recognise herself _(but on the other hand, did she ever?)_, her hair short and untamed. The Pansy she knew was a girl with long, blonde curls and white gloves up to her elbows. The Pansy she knew has been officially dead since the war started _(just another anonymous fallen)_.

The moon is not full but its white-though-not-cold light lulls her to sleep anyway, granting her all the false security she needs to feel peaceful _(Pansy is used to live the lies people serve her)_. Sometime during the night the hair she has held securely in her hands all the way falls from her fingers, landing among the forget-me-nots blooming in the forest floor.

When she wakes up she is lying on a soft bed with cornflower blue covers and a steaming hot cup of tea on the bedside table. The room is small _(nothing like the elegance of the bedrooms in both her own home and Malfoy Manor)_; but filled with the glowing light of the morning sun, it is warm in a way none of her other homes have ever been.

"I convinced my dad you could stay only because I assured him you weren't a Maganius," a voice sounds from Pansy's right.

Luna Lovegood looks just as loony as when Pansy left school. Her hair is braided in one thick, dark blonde braid down her back _(held together by something resembling string made of lemon)_ and her eyes are impossibly wide _(impossibly blue)_. Pansy stares at her for a long time. Luna stares right back, an oddly gentle smile gracing her lips _(Pansy has never seen anyone look more relaxed, more peaceful; doesn't this girl know there's a war going on?)_.

"What's a Maganius?" Pansy finally asks, feeling stupid _(because she should not be listening to Luna, should not be talking to her, should not be curious as to why Luna has brought her here)_.

"It's the opposite of an Animagus," Luna replies as if she sees nothing strange in talking to a girl whom she found sleeping in the woods _(a girl who is a Slytherin and who never really was that kind to Luna in school)_. "It's an animal that can change into a human being. Wizards mostly. They can be quite dangerous if you don't find out about their true nature. Some people, though, don't believe they exist."

Pansy is about to say that she thinks it sounds like utter crap, when Lovegood gets to her feet and walks past Pansy's bed, dropping something on it.

"I believe this is yours."

Pansy does not notice that the door closes softly after the Ravenclaw girl; her lips beginning to form the answer that she has never had a doll like this one, but looking up, she finds the room empty of anyone but her. The doll, clad in a pretty pink dress _(frilly)_ and its hair long, light blonde and curly _(Goldilocks her mother always called her; Goldilocks)_, seems to be watching her from where it is lying among the sheets, its blue eyes blinking from time to time. Pansy has a feeling that she should recognise it _(if only from a dream)_. As she reaches out, letting her fingertips run over the soft locks, she realises it is her own hair on the little doll's head.

She cries _(telling herself it is for no reason)_ because the doll is her. The doll is her as a child and as a teenager and as a Malfoy. The doll is her, blinking stupidly at the world when it throws her to the floor in immature anger _(Draco would be furious: "Pick yourself up, you're a Pureblood. You're a Malfoy now!")_.Pansy cries because her son is going to have a mother who has no idea who she is.

Much later _(the sun has set, the moon is back in all its Slytherin-silver glory – it must be evening)_ Luna returns with a bowl of soup and logs for the tiny fireplace opposite of Pansy's bed _(she has not moved from it; it is safety)_. The doll held securely to her chest _(close to her heart, bump bump)_, Pansy watches Luna light the fire in silence.

"Why did you make it?" she finally asks. Luna turns around, her hair shining more halo like than Draco's would ever be able to do. She nods as if something has been finally settled, sighing happily and stepping closer to Pansy's bed.

"Children needs something to hold on to," she says, her voice soft as the candy from Honeydukes that Pansy liked best. "Even if it's nothing but an illusion."

Pansy looks down at the doll, quickly letting go of it. It lands on the bed with a dull thud, its eyes glimmering in the light from the flames _(there is life somewhere in there, subtle but strong)_.

"I'm not a child," she tells Luna forcefully, suddenly aware that she is trying to prove something without knowing exactly what. Luna shrugs and smiles, her eyes shimmering greyish like fog _(hello, anyone in there?)_ as she sits down next to Pansy on the bed, reaching out for the doll.

The doll and the girl look at each other for some seconds before Luna cocks her head slightly.

"No, you aren't," she agrees, putting the doll carefully down, stroking its hair softly as if she waits for it to go asleep _(hush little baby, don't you cry)_. After some minutes in a silence that is not awkward she looks up again, meeting Pansy's eyes unyieldingly, "but your son will be and when time comes he will need her."

Pansy does not ask how Luna knows she is pregnant; how Luna can be sure she has nowhere else to go. Instead she smiles slightly, looking out the window at the full moon. When Luna hands her the doll wordlessly _(its long, golden hair – her own hair, the doll hair – tickles her wrist)_, she accepts it and decides to let her own hair stay short. At least for a while.


End file.
